


Substitution

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No Sex, One Night Stands, One Shot, Shady Cantinas, Short One Shot, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29243139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It’s never been about the feelings.
Relationships: Boba Fett/Original Female Character(s)
Collections: Anonymous





	Substitution

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t really know what this is. It’s been sitting in my drafts, and now it is here.

The wind blows over the desolate landscape as she leans against the doorframe. It’s dark, the sun touching the rim of the world far off in the distance. And she can see him, marching across the hard-baked plains. She turns and pushes her way back inside the cantina, taking the seat one away from the wall. Like she normally does.

There are maybe twenty or thirty other people in the bar. Not many, in the grand scheme of things. Where she was born there were always lots of people. Now she lives here and there are few. Or fewer. Things are a lot quieter, maybe safer. It doesn’t quite matter to her. The population isn’t what makes a planet home. She doesn’t have one of those anymore. 

Liquor is sour on her tongue, but she sips it slowly. He slides into the seat between her and the wall, gives his order to the bartender. She never knows why he does that. The distinctive helmet currently covering his face rarely comes off, even in the cantina. He usually gives his drink to her. Maybe it’s his way of saying sorry. For what, she can’t quite name.

Tonight he pulls the helmet up enough to drink, drowning whatever foul gunk he asked for in one gulp. She gives him a commiserating smile.

“That bad, huh?” She hears his sigh as he lowers the glass and turns to her, a sound no one else did. Naivety is not a word that applies to her; there are probably many women in many cantinas that know his face, the quiet sighing sound he makes, the weird and inconsistent rules of the helmet. If there are any. Perhaps he just doesn’t feel like taking it off.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She downs the last of her drink and climbs to her feet, ignoring the burning in her throat. 

“Shall we, then?” He throws down a couple of credits and follows her out into the streets, which are mostly empty. No one would make the mistake of calling this place a town, small or otherwise. They don’t talk. They don’t usually talk, actually. It’s just footfall after footfall until she’s keying the code into her front door.

This is the part where they step inside and make for her pallet, sometimes shedding their clothes and sometimes not. The helmet always comes off, but sometimes the armor doesn’t. Sometimes her tunic stays on, sometimes just her bandeau. And some nights, when they are both feeling especially patient, everything does. That has happened three times in three years.

Tonight is something new. The door closes behind them, but when she heads for the corner he remains just on the threshold. His visor stares at the ground. A moment passes, her carefully watching him and him carefully watching the floor. Something possesses her to step forward, and as she does his head tilts up. They’re inches apart, and although they’ve been much closer, there’s something strangely tense about this. 

Her hands rise, tentatively, landing on his shoulders and bridging the gap. This is unknown territory. She knows where he likes to be touched, when he wants to be touched at all. She knows what his voice sounds like in the throes of passion. She knows why he leaves and doesn’t stay, even on the occasions when they share more than pleasure. And that is fine. This was never about feelings and neither of them could ever let it be.

But she remembers learning. And even if this is a hard no, she will find out eventually. And so she grips his helmet, lifting it slowly to reveal his face. When it’s off she holds it between them, and then she looks up and sees him crying. Crying.

There are no sobs, not even a true hitch in his breath. But tears are trailing down his face. It never occurred to her that someone like him _would_ cry. Or if he did, that she would possibly be witness to it. The evidence before her is plain and confusing, and she’s never been good at feelings.

“Are you-” she begins, and he turns away. There’s a deep breath, one that he lets out slowly. She doesn’t try to speak again, just sets the helmet down on a counter and lowers herself onto the pallet. Something compels her to go to him again, but she knows it wouldn’t be helpful. It’s not about feelings. They don’t do that and trying to might destroy their delicate balance.

He turns, finally, his face damp but his eyes hard. And maybe that was the weird thing about it, seeing his eyes so open and full of pain. His face has always been closed, shut-tight. She could never tell what he was thinking until she was open, too, and both of them were too polite to look. He takes a few steps across the flagstone and stops in front of her.

There’s another moment of watching, and she wonders how many of the other women have seen him cry. If anyone has, really. It’s not like she knows much about him. Imagining this man as a child, as anything other than stone cold and mask-faced is impossible. 

“I can’t stay here tonight.” She nods. It’s about as much as she expected. But as he turns; turns to grab his helmet, to leave- she asks,

“Why?” It’s a dangerous word.

He doesn’t respond. He just grabs his helmet and leaves. She sighs, pulls the blanket up, and falls into an uneasy sleep.

This was never about feelings.


End file.
